


Nowhere to Go but Up

by gammadolphin



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Ugly, idiots being idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5642854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gammadolphin/pseuds/gammadolphin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jim tries to out-petty a petty stranger and nobody wins. Until everybody wins.</p><p>or</p><p>Jim and Bones are assholes to each other in an elevator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere to Go but Up

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a break from working on the multi-chapter angst-fest that I'm writing, so this happened. It was inspired by [this AU post](http://lizdexia.tumblr.com/post/117050708072/aus-for-when-your-otp-are-both-assholes) on tumblr.

Jim has already been having a rough morning. His alarm clock failed to go off, and he would be indignant about how such a ridiculously cliché thing is going to fuck up his first day at work, but he’s too busy scrambling around his shoebox of an apartment trying to find socks that both match and haven’t been left unwashed long enough to develop sentience. And then, because he and the universe just have one of those special bonds, he finds his motorcycle with a flat tire, which he doesn’t have time to fix.

By the time he bursts into the lobby of the building that houses _Pike & Archer_, the top legal firm in the city, he’s breathing hard, covered in sweat, and dripping slightly from the puddle of what can only charitably be described as water that was splashed on him by a passing bicycle courier. He’s also fifteen minutes late. So it shouldn’t surprise him, really, when after he calls out a request to hold the elevator he’s running towards, its only occupant jabs a finger into the button to close the door instead.

It’s one more injustice in this fuck-you of a day, and there are three other perfectly good elevators that Jim could wait for, but now it’s become a matter of principle. He narrows his eyes at the closing doors and the asshole behind them, and he summons up one last burst of speed from his protesting muscles.

It’s close, but he manages to get to the elevator in time to slide his hand between the closing doors. Of course, his momentum means that the rest of him slams into those doors before they can reopen fully, and he does an awkward shuffling fall into the elevator and winds up sprawling ass-first on the ugly speckled carpet. He looks pointedly up at the guy standing over him, and the guy stares unrepentantly back. He doesn’t try to help Jim up.

Well okay then. If that’s how it’s gonna be.

Jim glances behind him and sees that the only button illuminated on the panel is the one next to a brushed silver 43. Well, if that isn’t an opportunity begging to be seized, Jim doesn’t know what is.

He looks back up at the stranger, reaches behind him, and slowly, deliberately, pushes every single button between 1 and 43. It’s childish, he knows. Frankly, it’s a dick move. But so is pushing the close-door button when you see someone trying to catch your elevator, so Jim doesn’t feel the least bit bad. If he’s got to be late to work, then so does this jerk.

Said jerk doesn’t break eye contact as Jim’s finger moves relentlessly over the buttons. Except for a slight narrowing of his eyes, his expression doesn’t change, even as the elevator lurches to a halt and the doors slide open to reveal the empty first floor hallway. He just watches, flat and expressionless, and Jim’s pretty sure he’s seeing his own murder being planned right before his very eyes, but he keeps going with a kind of savage glee.

He finally jabs a finger into button 42 with a satisfying click that sounds oddly loud in the loaded silence. And then he smirks, the expression that got him into more than a few spots of trouble with authority figures when he was in school.

The stranger’s eyebrows draw together, and his jaw works furiously as he finally looks away from Jim to stare at the array of buttons now glowing cheerfully. Jim watches the muscle jumping beneath his skin, and wonders if he’s about to witness an explosion. He has a feeling it would be an epic one. But then the guy just lets out a faint sigh, and his shoulders relax a little.

“Well fuck you too,” he says, but it’s mild.

Jim clambers to his feet and goes to stand beside him, facing the doors. He makes a show of brushing himself off.

“Manners maketh man,” he says loftily.

“Kid, you’ve got a face that would give any school principal night terrors,” the stranger snorts. “If you’re known for your manners, I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

“What’s wrong with my face?” Jim demands indignantly.

“Oh nothing, except for the fact that it’s practically a neon sign that reads ‘TROUBLE’.”

Jim knows a few people who would agree with him on that. But he’s not exactly in the mood to be insulted on top of everything else.

“Yeah well, your face is…is…”

His face is really fucking attractive, actually, now that Jim’s looking at it. It’s a face that belongs on magazine covers. It’s a face that would have Jim pulling out his A game if he’d seen it in a bar. But like hell is he going to say that.

“Lame,” he manages.

The guy’s eyes roll skyward, and it looks like a familiar gesture on him. Jim just sniffs and faces front again as the doors open on the third floor.

“Why don’t you hit the close-door button?” he asks his companion snidely. “You seem to be good at it.”

“Not good enough, apparently,” the guy mutters, not moving. “Besides, of the two of us, I think we’ve seen who’s better at pushing buttons.”

He’s got him there. Jim smirks.

“You know what? You’re right. It’s a gift.”

And just as the doors are sliding shut, Jim pokes a finger into the open-door button, and they pull jerkily apart again. An angry huff of air bursts from the guy beside him, and Jim’s smirk widens. But then he lets out a rather undignified squeal as his companion jabs the ticklish spot on his side. He retracts his hand automatically and tries to ward off the onslaught, which doesn’t stop until the doors finally shut and the elevator starts to rise again.

“Now that’s just playing dirty,” Jim complains as the other man crosses his arms again and goes back to staring at the doors as if he hadn’t just nearly reduced another human being to a quivering puddle on the floor.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Am I k- dude, I’m pretty sure tickling is outlawed by the Geneva Convention.”

Tall, Dark, and Grumpy doesn’t dignify that with a response aside from an incredulously raised eyebrow, and silence falls as they rattle slowly upwards.

As they arrive with a cheerful DING! at their next floor, Jim begins to see the flaw in this little plan of his. He’s pretty sure the other guy has seen it too, because the silence grows rather pointed as they wait for the doors to close so that they can repeat this whole little cycle all over again. Hum-rattle-DING! Hum-rattle-DING! Hum-rattle-DING! Jim is glad that he didn’t get the chance to eat breakfast, because the multiple jarring accelerations and decelerations would wreak havoc on even his strong stomach.

Yet another DING! pierces the air, and the stranger’s gaze slides over to Jim. He manages to radiate unimpressed disdain without a single word, and there’s a hint of vindictive amusement in the faint upturn of the corner of his mouth. Jim fights down the heat that threatens to rise into his face, and doesn’t know what to say other than,

“You started it.”

The stranger rolls his eyes again, shakes his head, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘infant’. Jim wants to resent that, but each mocking DING! of the doors opening onto empty halls erodes whatever high ground he may have started on, until he’s feeling more than a little ridiculous. But he stands by the gesture he made.

“You could just get out and take a different elevator,” he says when they grind to a halt yet again on the twelfth floor.

“So could you.”

Jim glances over to meet a challenging, determined gaze, and realizes that neither of them is going anywhere.

So. He’s not the only stubborn idiot on the elevator. He’s surprised by the genuine grin that tugs at his lips, and he smothers it quickly.

“You’re gonna be late,” he says.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

The stranger chuckles suddenly as they lurch to another standstill. It is not the kind of chuckle that bodes well.

“What?” Jim asks him.

“I may throw up on you.” He looks way too pleased by the prospect.

Jim gulps.

“You get motion sick.”

He’s treated to a shark-like grin that holds a whole lot of scary promises.

So. Jim’s not the only petty bastard on the elevator either. It should be a more concerning realization than it is, but that smile has Jim a little distracted.

“Uh. Just- just sit and put your head between your knees, or something,” he suggests. “That’s supposed to help, right?”

“Have you seen this carpet? I ain’t sitting on it.”

“Of course I’ve seen it, because thanks to you, I was practically lying on it a minute ago.”

“Have you always been this damned dramatic?”

“So they tell me.”

“Your poor parents.”

Jim waits for the stab in his gut that usually accompanies any mention of his parents, but it doesn’t come. He’s so surprised that he lets the conversation drop as he studies his companion more closely. Under the more intense scrutiny, he looks tired, stressed. He appears to be a little older than Jim would have initially guessed, maybe mid-thirties, the age showing in the fine lines around his mouth and eyes. He’s got faint shadows under his eyes and a spot of shaving cream under his ear, and the suit he’s wearing has that wrinkled, neglected look that says it doesn’t spend much time out of his closet. He watches the floor numbers climb slowly higher with something that looks more like dread than annoyance.

And okay, maybe Jim starts to feel just a little bit bad as he realizes that maybe some vindictive asshole is the last thing this man needs to be dealing with today. He opens his mouth, maybe to apologize, maybe to see if he can poke another smile out of the guy, but he’s beaten to the punch.

“What floor did you say you were going to?”

Jim’s mouth snaps shut and he stares at his companion, who raises an eyebrow at him. Jim looks at the button panel, looks at the guy next to him, looks back at the button panel. He ducks his head and clears his throat, and then reaches out to push another button.

Both men gaze for a moment at the now-glowing 50.

“You…” Jim looks up to see the stranger staring at him, lips parted slightly, like he’s in awe of Jim’s obstinate idiocy. His eyes flick back to the button panel for a second before settling on Jim again. “You seriously-”

And then he bursts into laughter. It’s the best kind, the kind that comes from somewhere deep, the kind that just can’t be stopped. The kind that would normally be contagious, but Jim can’t join in for a moment because he’s too enthralled by the sight. The guy was hot before, but he’s beautiful like this, with his cheeks dimpled and his eyes sparkling, one hand braced on the railing as his laughter doubles him over. Jim gets the feeling he doesn’t laugh like this often, and that’s criminal because it’s one of the most incredible things he’s ever seen.

But then Jim is swept away by the ridiculousness of the situation and the gorgeous laughter of the stranger beside him, and he loses it too. It feels incredibly good to let go, to release the tension that’s been building up in him all morning, and maybe a lot longer.

Another two floors tick by before they can even start to get a hold of themselves. But then the doors open to display two professional looking, stick-up-the-ass types, who were apparently talking to each other but stop and stare at the two wheezing, disheveled men in the elevator. The guy’s mouth drops open slightly and the woman’s nose wrinkles in utter disdain. Jim and his companion try to straighten themselves up and look a little less insane, but they can’t quite manage it, and they all just stare at one another until the doors start to close again. Another laugh bubbles uncontrollably from Jim, and there goes what was left of their composure.

Each rattle-DING! of the doors opening sets them both off again, and it’s only when neither of them can breathe that they finally manage to get themselves under control. Jim clutches at his aching sides and grins at his companion, who’s wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.

“I think I needed that,” the man says, returning the smile.

“I know what you mean,” Jim tells him. He holds out a hand. “Jim Kirk.”

He’s unreasonably glad when the other man returns the shake, warm fingers curling around Jim’s hand.

“Leonard McCoy.”

“You don’t look like a Leonard.”

Jim likes to think that there’s a note of fondness in McCoy’s exasperation now.

“Yeah well you don’t look like a lawyer, but I assume you are.”

“Freshly minted,” Jim says. “It’s my first day.”

McCoy’s gaze rakes over Jim, no doubt taking in his ruffled collar and wet pants.

“You’re gonna make one hell of a first impression.”

“Don’t worry, my boss already knows what he signed up for.”

Pike has known Jim his whole life, and if he’s still willing to take him on after witnessing his high school years, then a little tardiness and a disheveled appearance aren’t going to deter him.

“Brave man,” McCoy says.

“ _Brilliant_ man.”

They snipe cheerfully back and forth as the floors continue to tick slowly by. But as they climb through the last of the thirties, Jim’s sudden good mood starts to dampen again and he realizes that he’s dreading the end of this ridiculous ride. What started out as petty vengeance has turned out to be an experience that he’s actually _enjoying_. McCoy is witty and hot and way less of a douche than Jim thought, and something about him just makes Jim feel lighter. Each of his smiles feels like a kind of victory, and the idea that he might never get to see another one after a few minutes is surprisingly painful.

But if McCoy works in the building, maybe Jim will get to see him again. Surely Pike will have him running all kinds of errands, and if they happen to take him past McCoy’s floor, well, that’s just fate isn’t it?

“So, what’s awaiting you on the 43rd floor?” he asks during a lull in the conversation.

McCoy’s expression pinches, and he frowns at the floor number display. He tugs at his tie, whether out of nerves or to straighten it Jim can’t tell.

“Divorce lawyer.”

Jim’s levity vanishes in an instant and guilt blooms in his stomach.

“Ah hell,” he says awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t be,” McCoy interrupts. “I’m a big fan of putting off unpleasant things for as long as humanly possible.”

“This your first meeting?” Jim asks.

“Yeah.” McCoy shakes his head and glares at the glowing button for his floor. “I hate that I even need to be here, but I guess nobody _likes_ getting divorced.”

“I hear it’s a real relief when it’s over,” Jim offers.

“Not if she takes my kid.”

Jim’s expression twists with sympathy. No wonder the guy looks stressed.

“How old?”

“Five.”

McCoy hesitates for a moment, but then pulls his phone from his pocket and shows Jim the lock screen. It’s a picture of McCoy, wearing a smile more carefree than any of those that Jim has seen, carrying a beaming little girl on his back. She’s got her arms wrapped around her father’s neck and her cheek pressed to his, their matching hazel eyes sparkling.

“She’s beautiful,” Jim says honestly.

He’s never exactly been one to coo over pictures of the kids, but this one hits him. And while he has no idea how he managed to get invested in the span of twenty minutes, he finds himself genuinely caring about what happens to McCoy and his daughter. And what’s the point of being in the legal business if you can’t help the people you care about?

“Who’re you going to be working with?” he asks.

“Alexander Marcus.”

Jim has heard of Marcus. Mostly from Pike, who spends rather a lot of time ranting about him. Apparently he’s one of the most arrogant, callous bastards in the business.

“No, you’re not,” Jim says firmly. “You don’t want Marcus. He’ll treat you like shit, and he sure as hell won’t care about you or your kid.”

“Well, do you have a better suggestion?” McCoy snaps.

As a matter of fact…

“Christopher Pike is the best in town.”

“Yeah, which is why I tried him first. I couldn’t even get past his secretary.”

“He’ll take your case,” Jim promises. “Once he meets you, hears about your situation…trust me, he’ll make sure your wife doesn’t take your daughter away from you.”

“What makes you so sure?” McCoy asks suspiciously as the doors close on the 42nd floor and they begin to rattle upwards once again.

“Pike’s not the kind of guy to turn away the cases that matter, or the hard ones.” Jim offers McCoy a small smile. “Plus, he’s got a hot new lawyer underling working for him who will devote as much time and energy as it takes to win yours.”

McCoy’s eyes widen slightly. He watches Jim for a long moment, hope and caution warring in his gaze.

“I already made you late for your appointment,” Jim tells him quietly. “Marcus won’t take kindly to that. Let me help you.” _Let me have a reason to see you again_.

The elevator dings, and they both glance out at the austere hallway of the 43rd floor. Jim looks back to McCoy, and finds himself holding his breath. After a moment, McCoy returns the gaze. He reaches out to push a button, and the doors slide closed. Jim feels his face split into a grin so wide it aches.

“Finally, that button gets put to good use.”

**Author's Note:**

> And then they made out in the elevator, Grey's Anatomy style. (not really. maybe next time.)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this deviation from my usual soul-crushing angst. For more of these idiots, and just Star Trek in general, feel free to check out my [tumblr](http://drmcbones.tumblr.com/).


End file.
